Invisible Lines
by solroros
Summary: A story about sundered families, lost bloodlines, and the lies our elders tell us. HP/HG, imminent bashing of authority figures and Weasleys - rating might go up if Harry's mouth runs away with him
1. Prologue

Author's Note: I promise, promise, promise that I will be continuing "By Candlelight". However, this conspiracy bunny would crawl back into its tinfoil cage. The central point of this story, plot-wise, came to me when I was trying to think of why, beyond the expected and easy reasons, purebloods would hate Muggle-borns. Naturally, my mind took the most convoluted route from Point A to Point B.

This is just a taste. Let me know if you're intrigued!

* * *

Hermione Granger, Gryffindor's resident know-it-all, raised her hand, eager to get the attention of her Arithmancy teacher, Professor Vector. The topic for the week, the final week of the summer term, was spell potency and how it might best be calculated.

Hermione was fascinated by Arithmancy, which she likened to mathematics. More art than science, however, Arithmancy pierced the Trelawney-esque wooliness that surrounded the rest of her magical education and sought the building blocks of magic, and life itself. For someone with a nature as curious and exacting as Hermione's, it was everything she hoped it would be.

There was one major point, however, on which she required clarification.

"But professor, if we can calculate the power of a spell to the smallest possible kerjigger, why can't we calculate our own potential magical power?"

Professor Vector, a dry-voiced woman in her forties, froze. The entire class of Gryffindor and Ravenclaw fourth-years turned to look at Hermione.

"It is impossible to calculate, with any accuracy, the magical power of any given individual," Vector said stiffly. "Everyone knows this."

_Well obviously I don't._

"But Professor-" Vector cut her off with an impatient wave of her hand.

"Magical power is derived from will, and an extra ability that cannot be quantified!" The class, made up mostly of purebloods, looked around uncomfortably. Terry Boot and Padma Patil exchanged an uneasy glance.

"Professor please-"

"Ten points from Gryffindor! And detention, Miss Granger."

Hermione's jaw dropped. She never got detention, not for asking a question in class. Not for anything, really.

"I don't understand," Hermione said in a small voice. "Everything in the universe can be quantified, that's the point of Arithmancy."

Vector approached her desk, more menacing than Hermione had ever supposed her capable of being. "It is impossible," she said with a tone of finality.

Hermione was not one for giving up. "Nothing is impossible, not with magic," she said, almost desperately.

"Trust your elders, Miss Granger," Vector replied in a stern voice that seemed to echo through the halls of Hogwarts. "They know what is best."


	2. Obliviate

A/N: Well, there was some interest, so we press on. For some reason I had difficulty getting things started – putting things in the right order is difficult – but you should see chapters two and three go up rather quickly. Things aren't looking great for Hermione right now, but you gotta go through hell to get to heaven. Or to earn heaven. Or to deserve it? Don't ask me, I didn't make the rules.

* * *

Harry was bound to a headstone in an unfamiliar cemetery, not like he hung around cemeteries long enough to be familiar with any, staring at Cedric's corpse. Only moments before that body had been a vital, kind, intelligent young man. A young man Harry insisted take the Triwizard Cup with him. Now he was plant food.

"Look at me, Harry," Voldemort's sibilant voice whispered. Though he tried, Harry could not stop his head from moving towards the Dark Lord. "That's it, my boy. Now, let's see what's in your head."

Voldemort's mind dove into Harry's, no barriers at all between them. The older wizard rifled through Harry's memories, seeking out the brightest moments of his life and the darkest.

_Who is she? _Voldemort's voice commanded in his head as memories of Hermione flew past his ,mind's eye. _She looks so-_

"Who is she?" Voldemort repeated as he extracted himself from Harry's mind.

Harry groaned, the pain of reliving every single beating from Uncle Vernon quite fresh in his mind. The memories Voldemort had recently looked at, memories of his best friend, gave him strength enough to look the Dark wizard in the eye.

"I'll never tell you," Harry gasped. Voldemort's lips curled in a smile.

"Oh, you will."

The Dark Lord perused Harry's thoughts once more, garnering everything they could about Hermione – her name, her intelligence, her home address, how Harry felt about her.

If the timing were different, Harry would have taken a moment to examine that himself.

"That old bastard," Voldemort said, almost under his breath, as he removed himself from Harry's mind once more.

"What do you want with Hermione?" Harry asked.

"Nothing that you need to know about," Voldemort replied as he raised his wand. "Now, I'm afraid we have other things to be getting on with. _Obliviate_."

* * *

Three days into summer vacation, Hermione was home alone while her parents tended to their practice. Gazing at the shelves of her personal library, Hermione admitted to herself that her home life was a little lonely. She loved her parents dearly, and they seemed to reciprocate, but they were a bit distant. Not at all what she had seen with the Weasleys, or even in the homes of her few childhood friends. Not all parents were the same, but sometimes it seemed as though...

_No, don't go thinking like that_, she thought to herself as she perused her library. _They're just different, not better or worse than anyone else's parents._

She sighed, dissatisfied with the books in front of her. Each and every one had been read more than three times, and none brought her the answers she sought. Despite the warnings of Professor Vector at the end of last term, she still believed there was an untapped potential to study the magical core of wizards and witches.

Pulling down _Arithmancy Anecdotes: a History of Arithmancy and Its Uses_, she decided to research exactly why the study of magical cores was forbidden, and if it had ever been allowed. Despite her reverence for authority figures, when one is friends with Harry Potter one learns to questions the rules a bit.

By lunch time, she had not made much headway. Her mind had been preoccupied since the events of the Triwizard Tournament. She would never forget the look on Harry's face when he Portkeyed back to the stadium – the pain, the guilt, the horror. He was her best friend, even if he was a prat sometimes, and no one liked to see their best friend suffering. She wished there was a way she could make it better, besides the one she knew for certain was forbidden to her.

"_He doesn't see you like that, Mione," Ron said, laying a gentle hand on her shoulder. "Told me himself. He thinks of you like a sister, nothing more."_

"_Ron are you sure?" Hermione asked. "I've felt this way forever, since first year. Surely if I just talked to him-"_

"_You know how Harry is," Ron said, tightening his grip. "It would just make things awkward. Besides, I know he has a crush on Cho, and Ginny likes him too. You couldn't do that to Ginny, could you?"_

Hermione shook her head. There was no hope Harry would see her as anything other than a swotty little bookworm, as a sister with the answers to all life's problems, the helper in times of need. Boys didn't wan to date smart girls – they wanted the Chos and Ginnys of the world. Athletic, pretty, popular, and just smart enough to get by. She would do better to forget any less-than-fraternal feelings.

Oh well, at least she could be there for him. She was leaving for the Order's Headquarters tonight, and expected Harry to be joining them shortly. Dumbledore had forbidden her from writing him, and all the letters she had sent anyway had come back via a different owl. It didn't make sense to her, given that Harry probably needed his friends (and godfather) more than ever right now, but she had to bow to Dumbledore's greater wisdom.

Right?

* * *

Molly Weasley glanced around Grimmauld Place, a grim expression on her face. This was how the better half lived? Even for Dark wizards, the Black family's taste was atrocious. The credenza in the entry way was entirely too large for the space, and those lighting fixtures were really in poor taste. Not to mention the dust rising with every step on the ancient carpets. She sighed, thinking ahead to how she could get Harry and Hermione to help her children clean everything, without magic of course, once they arrived.

Those two were troubled, and no mistake. Hermione always had to put herself forward in such an unseemly manner, and Harry, well, his upbringing left much to be desired. If he could only have been raised in a proper Wizarding household (capitalization necessary), then he surely would have been betrothed to her Ginny by now.

In the meantime, there were always love and hate potions. Even a fool could see how Harry and Hermione looked at each other, how well-matched they were. And Molly Weasley was no fool It had taken many love potions to convince her Arthur that they were meant to be – she had no qualms of her daughter following in her footsteps. How else was a witch to ensnare her wizard?

The same was true of Ron and Hermione, of course. Hermione was one powerful witch, and she would bear powerful children for House Weasley. And if Ron had to teach her how to act more demurely, as a good wife should, well, that was between them.

Sirius would be a problem, though. The man was such a Gryffindor, especially in his need to tell everyone the truth all the time. There were some truths the children didn't need to know, some subtle nudges in the correct direction necessary to their well-being and happiness. With Dumbledore's assurances firmly in her mind, Molly was certain she knew what was best for all involved.

With a heavy sigh, Molly sought out the master of the house. It was time to remind Sirius Black of the _true_ parental figure in Harry Potter's life – her.


	3. Unwanted

The first two weeks of summer holiday passed quickly for Hermione, lost in a blur of Arithmancy books and returned owls. It seemed that Dumbledore was serious about restricting her contact with Harry this summer. She learned that Arithmancy was first developed by Rowena Ravenclaw herself, and improved in later centuries mostly by members of her house. However, in the last century discoveries had all but ceased in the most scientific of magical disciplines.

Hermione's eyes narrowed as she read on. Most talented Arithmancers were employed by the Department of Mysteries, as Unspeakables or Unknowables. Hermione knew, by hearsay, that the best and brightest of the wizarding world often went to work for the Ministry as opposed to entering the private sector, but this trend bothered her.

Though things had recently been a little rocky with her parents, Hermione decided that she did not have the proper adult perspective and needed to ask them about it. In a veiled manner, of course.

"Dad, where would you say the best scientists in the country work today?" she asked as she passed the potatoes at dinner that night. Evan Granger thought for a moment.

"I would have to say that they mostly work for private foundations. Some of them work for the HPA, of course, but the money is in the private sector."

"Why do you think that some choose to work for the government?"

"Besides the fact that it's a public service and some feel called? I'm sure there are recruiters, just like anything else. But the best and the brightest are out making the biggest salaries they can."

"So, if the government offered the best salary, that's probably where they would work?" Evan nodded.

"There's also a question of prestige, of course. Some jobs are more important than others, and many scientists, and other people, measure their own self-worth by their role in society and the working world. Why the sudden interest, Hermione?" The youngest Granger shifted uncomfortably. Her parents did not like to discuss her… secret, as they called it.

"No reason," she said, spearing a piece of roast.

_So it all comes back to money? Wizards make the best money at the Ministry? Or it just makes them feel important? I can understand wanting to make the world a better place, I certainly want to, but it does not seem to be the Ministry's aim…_

She really wished she had someone in the wizarding world to talk to about this, but there was no one she really trusted apart from Harry and he was just as clueless as she was. Ron was her friend, of course, but he had a tendency to brush aside any of her questions or subtly belittle her for her ignorance. Not that he did it consciously, of course, he was just being Ron.

With a sigh, Hermione added the question of why working at the Ministry was the best move for talented magicals to her pile of research topics. Maybe she could speak with Mr. Weasley when she went to the Burrow later in the summer.

A month into the summer holiday, Pigwidgeon arrived with an invitation for Hermione to join the Weasleys at the Burrow. Ron neglected to say who would be picking Hermione up from her house, just that they would be there the next day at 18:00.

"Thanks for the advanced notice," Hermione muttered, glancing around at the mess that was her room. Books and clothes were strewn everywhere, and Crookshanks had left a fine coating of glossy orange hair over the lot. She was not normally a messy person, but she was in research mode.

That evening, as she sat with her parents in the den, she informed them that she would be leaving the following day. Her parents exchanged glances, and her father cleared his throat nervously.

"As tomorrow is Thursday, you know your father and I will be working late," Clarisse Granger said. "We will likely not be back by the time you leave."

"I understand," Hermione said quietly, looking down at her hands.

"Which is why we need to have this talk now," Clarisse continued, a note of determination in her voice. "Hermione, there is no good way to say this, so I will be blunt: you are adopted."

Hermione's head shot up so quickly she got a crick in her neck. It hurt almost as much as the distant looks in her parents' eyes.

"Adopted?" Hermione asked, a little breathlessly.

"That's right," Ewan said. "My wife and I have given this a lot of thought, and, well, this just isn't working out."

"Isn't working out?" Hermione repeated. Her brain was shutting down even as her eyes filled with tears.

"Now, now, none of that," Clarisse said. "You feel it too. There's too much distance, too much strangeness. This is not how a family should be, and we would like to free all of us from what has become a farce."

_A farce?_ She couldn't bring herself to repeat that one.

"We would like to have you emancipated in the normal world," Ewan said. "You'll be sixteen in September, and we have money set aside to maintain your economic self-sufficiency."

"What we need from you is to find someone to become your adult guardian until you reach the age of majority, preferably a wizard with some contacts in the normal world."

Hermione nodded dumbly. Her parents did not want her. It was possible they had not wanted her for a long time. Now they wanted her to be someone else's problem.

"Is this because I'm a witch?" she asked. "Because I'm not _normal_?"

"I'd be lying if I said it wasn't a factor," Clarisse said emotionlessly. "But there are other extenuating circumstances. You know you are not happy, and we are not happy. This seems to be the best choice for all involved."

Hermione nodded. Her parents were logical to a fault, a trait she had often been accused of displaying. Truthfully, the use of logic in the face of emotion went against her passionate nature – her crusade for house elf rights during the previous year was a prime example. She was just trying to be like them, trying to make them love her.

"You said that I have money?"

"Yes, it would have been your college fund, but once you went to that school we knew you wouldn't need it. I've been investing it, and the stock market has been kind. Last week I transferred all liquid assets to an account in your name at our bank. You are free to do with it as you please."

Hermione took a deep breath. The only part of her brain not currently swimming in a pool of despair noted that she would have to go to Gringotts and added it to the running checklist of her life, complete with a red asterisk for emphasis. "How long do I have to find a new guardian?"

"Preferably by the end of Christmas holidays, but sooner is always better than later, as we've told you in the past." Hermione nodded again.

"Is there anything else?"

"No, I would say that about sums it up." She waited for her former parents to say something else, perhaps offer an apology or a parting handshake, but they said nothing. After a moment of awkward and heavy silence, Hermione stood shakily. There were many things she wanted to say to these people who were supposed to love her, but she knew her words would fall on deaf ears.

"Thank you," was all she said before she went upstairs.

Hermione did not join her former parents for breakfast the next day, and they did not try to see her before they left for work. Instead, she lay on her bed and mentally reviewed the checklist of all the things she needed to do (a list which had grown substantially overnight):

-find a magical/muggle guardian who was convinced she was worth the trouble (she was not entirely convinced of that at the moment)

-go to Gringotts and open an account, ask about investing options

-cry until this stopped hurting

-pack up her stuff

At least one of these could be accomplished at present, but she couldn't find the energy to move from her bed. Crookshanks was stretched out beside her, aware that his human was upset and purring in order to make her feel better. In his infinite kneazle intelligence, he could tell that his efforts were futile.

The sunlight and shadows moved through Hermione's bedroom, but still she did not rise from her bed, change out of her bedclothes, or make any effort to leave. Once she left this house, she would likely never return. She was not sure how to feel about that. On the one hand, her adopted parents obviously did not love her. How could anyone who loved their child give that child up? On the other, she had believed that they were her parents for so long. Who were her parents? Were they magical? Why did they abandon her too?

The knock on the door promptly at 18:00 shook her from her thoughts. Hermione looked around her room and groaned, hoping her escorts would not mind hanging around for an extra hour. She slowly made her way downstairs to the front door, not even bothering to change out of her sleep cami and shorts or to run a brush through her unruly hair. It was probably just Mr. Weasley after all, he wouldn't care.

Finding Remus Lupin and an unknown witch on the other side was the last thing she expected, but it would take more than that to shake her from her misery.

"Hello Professor, ma'am," Hermione said. "Come on in. Sorry, I'm not entirely packed yet." Zombie-like, she closed the door behind them as Remus gave her a worried look.

"I haven't been a professor in over a year, Hermione, you can call me Remus."

"Sure."

"And I'm Tonks," the unknown witch said, extending her hand and a smile to the distraught witch.

"Nice to meet you," Hermione said, ignoring the handshake. "You can come on up, sorry it's kind of a mess." Hermione turned and walked slowly up the stairs.

"Wow," Tonks said in an undertone to Remus. "I thought you said she was a real control freak. What's her deal?"

"I'm not sure," Remus said, following Hermione with worry in his eyes.

They reached Hermione's room, where she was haphazardly tossing books and clothes into her trunk.

"Need a hand?" Tonks asked. Hermione shrugged, so Tonks waved her wand and the rest of Hermione's belongings sailed into the trunk.

"Thanks," Hermione said, digging out a pair of jeans and a t-shirt from the neatly stacked piles. "I'll just go change."

When she returned, the worried looks on Remus and Tonks's faces had deepened. Hermione wordlessly grabbed Crookshanks and hugged him close as they descended the stairs, Tonks floating Hermione's trunk behind them. Hermione did not pause as she stepped through the front door, and chose not to look back.

"Aren't your parents here to say goodbye?" Remus asked, turning to look at the empty house.

"No," Hermione said. With another glance at Tonks, Remus hooked Hermione's arm in his and Disapparated.

* * *

Sirius wandered into the library sometime after midnight, trying to recall if there was a bottle of Ogden's still stashed behind the _Dark Liquids and How to Brew Them_ on the third shelf from the back. He was still sloshed, naturally, from the bottle he had finished only moments before. A bloke had to stay drunk to deal with Molly Weasley's henpecking. It was a wonder Arthur was _only_ obsessed with Muggle objects.

The library was a faded sort of room, just as Sirius was a faded sort of man. Both had lost their polish and glossiness from years of neglect, and while the fires burned in the sconces the shadows lurked in the corners, waiting for the light to snuff out, waiting to devour.

Sirius was just about to wander down to the Potions section of the library when he heard it: a sniffle. He whirled around, and was surprised to see Harry's friend Hermione curled up on one of the brown leather couches, quietly crying her heart out.

"Hermione?" The girl started, so lost in her own grief that she had been unaware of his entrance.

"Oh, hey Sirius," she said, quickly wiping her eyes. "What are you doing in here?"

"It's my library," he replied with a raised eyebrow. "And I'd ask what you're doing in here, but I think I already know." It was obvious to him, after all, that this little witch was in love with his godson. "Pining after my godson, are you?" he asked with his signature Marauder grin.

"What?" Hermione asked. "No, no. Of course not. We're just friends."

Of course they were bloody just friends, they were all of thirteen! (Sirius conveniently forgot, for the moment, that his first kiss had been at the tender age of eleven.)

"Of course, but that doesn't mean you can't miss him." He moved over to the couch, staggering a bit from the firewhiskey still in his system, and sat heavily. "Now, why don't you tell Uncle Padfoot all about what's bothering you?"

Hermione had been acting oddly since her arrival two days before. Sirius did not know her well, but he knew a bit about her from Harry's letters during the past year. Listlessly wandering a pureblood mansion and not asking a single question did not sound like the curious know-it-all Harry was sure to mention in each missive.

"I'm adopted," she blurted. "And they don't want me anymore. I have until Christmas to find a muggle guardian, but I don't know how emancipation works in the wizarding world, and they don't love me and I don't know what to doooo-" Her rambling was cut off with a heartwrenching sob.

Sirius found himself with an armful of crying teenager and a mind full of confusion. He could not believe that someone would throw away this brave girl, the one who had helped save his very life (and done something very illegal in the process).

Vividly, he recalled the night that his own parents threw him out of the house for refusing to continue his lessons in Dark magic. At the time, he had told James that his parents disowned him for not joining the Death Eaters. In reality, Blacks bow to no one – he was almost certain Regulus had gone behind their parents' backs in order to join Voldemort. Blacks also believe in being prepared for the worst, and being the dramatic family that they are, the worst was always imagined to be far worse than it ever could possibly be. Hence, the need for a knowledge of Dark magic and how to protect oneself against it.

For years in Azkaban, Sirius relived that night in his mind. He knew now that Orion, and to a lesser extent Walburga, were trying to protect him from the likely future where he would be attacked with Dark curses. In his infinite sixteen-year-old wisdom, though, that was not how he saw it. Orion had cast him out, convinced that any son too stupid to save his own life by any means necessary was not worthy of the title of Heir.

Some days, Sirius was sure he was right.

Nevertheless, he knew to some extent what Hermione was going through. Damaged as he was by his years of imprisonment, even he knew when it was appropriate to offer empathy.

"Shh, witchling, it'll be alright," he said, awkwardly hugging Hermione.

"So that's what's been bothering her," someone whispered from behind him. He doubted Hermione heard over her tears, so he turned slightly in his seat to see who had spoken. Remus and Tonks were standing in the doorway, both with tears in their eyes.

"Moony, get over here," Sirius mouthed, directing his eyes back at the sobbing witch in his arms. The other two adults hurried over and took seats at the couch perpendicular to Sirius and Hermione's. The teenage witch, startled by their approach (_she really is lost in her grief_) jumped back from Sirius as the other two sat.

"Oh, Professor," Hermione said, hurriedly wiping her eyes.

"Remus, Hermione," Moony gently corrected. "We heard what you told Sirius."

"We are so sorry, poppet," Tonks said, barely restraining her maternal urge to comfort the girl. When Hermione broke down again, the older witch all but launched herself at the other couch. Sirius was dislodged somewhere in the tangle of crying females, and gratefully pulled himself up next to Moony.

"What are we going to do?" Sirius asked Remus.

"We haven't been able to get Harry away from his bloody awful relatives-"

"That's mostly my fault. And Dumbledore's right, he has to be there for his own protection. This is different."

"You don't have to worry about it," Hermione said, overhearing them somehow. "I'll handle it. I can do this."

"You can barely make it downstairs to breakfast," Sirius said. This, of course, kicked off another round of sobbing.

"Nice one, Padfoot," Remus said.

"Well it's true," Sirius said. "And she barely eats when she does. I don't know why Molly hasn't noticed yet."

"Could she go with the Weasleys?" Tonks asked, now cradling Hermione to her.

"Don't you think they have enough children?" Sirius asked.

"Mrs. Weasley doesn't seem to like me all that much," Hermione said, by way of agreement.

"Nonsense," Tonks said, although she didn't look so sure.

"We'll think of something," Remus said with a reassuring smile.


End file.
